


Manhunt

by Unsentimentalf



Series: Black Hole [4]
Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-23
Updated: 2010-09-23
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unsentimentalf/pseuds/Unsentimentalf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>  "I am not a substitute for John bloody Watson!"</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manhunt

DI Lestrade switched the umbrella between hands so that he could hammer on the front door. Rain cascaded down from the drainpipes and off the window ledges. His shoes were getting soaked, and most of the rest of him was already damp.

Nine o'clock on a Saturday morning, and he was off duty. He could still be in bed, having ventured out from the covers for just long enough to turn the coffee machine on. Be curled up warm under the duvet, waiting lazily for the first brew, thinking of nothing in particular, letting the week's pressures slide away.

He expected crisis calls from work. Went with the job. But a text from Sherlock Holmes at 8am summoning him to Baker Street; that seemed unfair. If he went, it would turn out to be something trivial, or even nothing at all. If he didn't, it would have been vitally important. Since vitally important trumped lie-in, here he was. Might as well get a heads-up now, if the detective was actually ever going to answer the door.

Which opened.

"John," Sherlock announced to the wet man "is away until Sunday evening." And he was striding up the stairs, leaving Lestrade to close the front door behind him and follow.

Unusual these days to have Sherlock stir downstairs for a visitor. He'd got bone idle since John was here. But Holmes was without his Watson today; Lestrade resigned himself to making his own coffee. Which he undoubtedly needed. God, it was nasty out.

Sherlock headed straight over to the writing desk in the sitting room, and Lestrade followed. Three beakers, three pieces of roughly twisted plastic half suspended in each. He reached around Sherlock's shoulder and the man snapped at him

"Don't touch!"

"Sorry." A watch beeped and Sherlock pulled on rubber gloves, picked up a set of calipers and removed the first piece for measurement.

"Battery acid," he threw back over his shoulder. "This will take a further 12 minutes and 37 seconds to complete."

"Right." Lestrade looked round. "OK if I make myself a coffee?"

"White, no sugar." Sherlock was carefully replacing the plastic in the acid, making notes.

Lestrade switched the kettle on, came back into the living room. "Is this what your message was about?"

"No." Sherlock seemed surprised at the question. "You were going to take between 50 and 80 minutes to get here. This experiment would take 75. Clearly you could wait if you arrived before I had finished. So wait quietly."

"Oh." Lestrade thought longingly of his Saturday morning in bed as he went back to make the coffee. Instant, not like the scent of heaven percolating through his warm flat. Then he sat quietly, watching Sherlock's focussed concentration on the experiment, trying not to think about the delicate, definite movements of the man in front of him too closely because Sherlock would doubtless know.

Finally Sherlock sat back and announced himself finished.

"Good. What were the results?"

"Conclusive. Insurance fraud." Sherlock looked across at Lestrade. "Since you can't produce enough interesting work to keep me busy, I am reduced to commercial freelancing."

"Fine by me." Busy Sherlock was not bored Sherlock. Bored Sherlock was trouble. "So what did you get me here for?"

"I told you. John's away." The irritation at having to repeat himself harshened Sherlock's voice.

"I damn well hope you didn't get me half way across London to make you a coffee."

"No." Sherlock was dismantling his equipment. "Clear the stuff off the bed. Careful with the saucepan; the contents are volatile and Mrs Hudson is fond of this house."

Sherlock's mattress held several pieces of fruit as well as the covered saucepan but no sheets. A heap in the corner of the room might have been the original bedding. Lestrade stood at the door and regarded it.

"Why am I doing this?"

"Because," and he could hear Sherlock's teeth gritted in exasperation at his slowness, "John is away."

"John makes your bed?"

"Usually, yes. He hasn't done it for some days so I have been sleeping on the couch, which is in this case unsuitable."

"Unsuitable for what?" Lestrade found this conversation irritatingly obscure.

Sherlock put the beakers down, glared at Lestrade. Spoke slowly and patronisingly.

"John's presence is distracting me from work. I am, according to him, irritating John. He has gone to stay with that woman for the weekend, and suggested strongly that I get laid while he was away. This seemed to be sound advice and I am taking it."

Lestrade considered that sentence from several different angles. It certainly sounded like a proposition, unlikely as that seemed.

"No."

"Don't be stupid. You've been trying unsuccessfully to repress your strong attraction to me for several months. Why wouldn't you?"

"Have you ever heard of a concept called self respect?" Lestrade found himself angry. How could the man do this to him? "I am not a substitute for John bloody Watson!" Who managed to stay bafflingly straight despite having the most irresistible man in London at, or possibly under, his feet. Although Lestrade was beginning to see just how Sherlock might have irretrievably cocked the courtship of his flatmate up, if this was anything to go by.

"Why else would I want you here?" Sherlock sounded puzzled. "You want to have sex with me. I'm prepared to have sex with you. What is the problem?"

"You're prepared to do it? I think that's the problem, Sherlock. You're not interested in me in the slightest, are you?"

"Ah." Light dawned. "You're concerned that I won't perform adequately because I'm not sufficiently attracted to you. Don't worry. I considered physical compatibility as well as convenience." He dumped the beakers in the sink, called back to Lestrade. "I expect this to be quite pleasurable, in fact."

Lestrade took one long look at the man as he re-emerged from the kitchen. All angles and limbs and long fingers and that infuriating smile. Then he walked to the stairs and let himself out, resisting the temptation to slam the door behind him.

 

It was still raining as Lestrade unlocked the door to his flat. His plan had been to head straight into the shower, get warm and maybe take the opportunity to shed a little of this discomfort. Bloody Sherlock. Who knew exactly what effect he had on Lestrade and _used_ it.

But that plan went straight out of the window as he walked into the hall, because that damn coat and that damn scarf were dumped untidily over the hall table.

"Sherlock!" He checked the kitchen diner, the living room. Nothing. "You don't break into my fucking flat, Sherlock!"

The bedroom had already been reduced to chaos. The sparse collection of porn from under the mattress was on the floor on top of Sherlock's clothes, the contents of his top drawer spread all over the bed. Sherlock, face down across his mattress and entirely naked, was playing with the police issue handcuffs.

"Never been used," Sherlock commented, without looking up. "Now's your chance."

"Get out of my damn house!"

"You're being remarkably unhelpful." Sherlock rolled over to gaze up at him, frowning. And Lestrade did really try not to look but yes, the man's body was just as taut and elegant as he had always imagined, and something- the handcuffs? the porn? surely not the prospect of bedding an irate middle-aged policeman?- had Sherlock close to hard. Which now made two of them.

Fuck this. Either Sherlock was leaving, or he was. He said as much.

"You won't be difficult to find again. This is a waste of time that could be better spent with those handcuffs."

Bastard. He was not going to give in. "Lock the door when you leave; you're paying for anything that gets nicked." He picked up his umbrella again and headed back into the rain.

 

No-one at the station was surprised to see their DI working on a weekend. Lestrade had no illusions that this would lose Sherlock, but then Sherlock could probably trace him anywhere. He might as well be doing something useful while he waited. So he delved into paperwork, coffee in one barely shaking hand and pretended to concentrate for a very long couple of hours.

Then the phone rang. The front desk. He sighed, contemplated the sort of scene that Sherlock might make if refused access. "Send him in."

At least he was sitting behind a desk, this time. Rather more in control. And Sherlock was clothed again, and surely wouldn't try anything directly physical in full sight of the rest of the main office, which might at least give him a chance to apply reason.

"You took your time."

Sherlock had stopped by the door, smile thin lipped. "Giving you time to ferment."

Which was quite an accurate description of Lestrade's state of mind, and body. It didn't improve his temper.

"What bit of 'no' don't you understand, Sherlock? Don't make me get a restraining order."

"One morning? You'll have to show rather more consistent harassment than that."

He hadn't meant it literally. "This isn't going to happen. Leave me alone."

Sherlock looked flushed. High. Edgy. Lestrade knew the signs; the detective was on a trail. And damn, to be the object of Sherlock's full attention was heady stuff but it didn't mean that Sherlock had any real interest in him, only that people didn't say no to the man very often. Lestrade knew that he was pretty pathetic, at least inside, when it came to Sherlock Holmes, but he wasn't that desperate.

"What have you got to lose? I won't tell anyone, if that bothers you."

Sherlock lied, easily as breathing. He'd tell John, for a start. He'd tell anyone he damn well felt like telling. Except that there wasn't going to be anything to tell. Lestrade found his voice was a growl,

"For God's sake, Sherlock, can't you at least try to think like a human being for once? What the hell do you think is going to happen afterwards?"

Sherlock frowned. "Afterwards?"

"Yes, afterwards. When you go back to your happy little bromance, all sexed out, and I go back to my empty flat. It's bad enough as it is. I'm not making this worse just so you can get laid."

Sherlock tilted his head, disagreement. "Avoiding a desired experience because it might not be repeated makes sense only if you fear addiction. Sex addiction is much rarer than the media suggests, and you show no sign of particular vulnerability." A quick, arrogant smile that made Lestrade's treacherous stomach turn over. "You can safely risk it, I assure you."

So no, Sherlock couldn't think like a human being. Lestrade wasn't entirely surprised. Still, he tried again.

"How would you feel, if John agreed to have sex with you once but never again?"

"Feel? Anticipatory, I imagine. If you mean what would I decide to do, then clearly if John was prepared to do it once, he could be persuaded to do it again and I would take advantage of the opportunity to exert a little persuasion."

He was considering Lestrade again, his eyes sliding down the man's body to the parts obscured by the desk in an uncomfortably definite manner. "The analogy is close enough. Have you considered it as a challenge?"

Oh yes. Because Lestrade's self respect could only be enhanced by that. Crawling on his knees to a much younger man, pandering to his every sexual whim in a desperate attempt to persuade him back into his bed occasionally... he was bloody hard and bloody uncomfortable and bloody furious at how much he wanted to give in.

"There must be someone else you could be pestering. Someone who actually wants to sleep with you."

""You want to sleep with me, if by "sleep" you mean have sex. You're just being ridiculous."

"I'm not going to. Find someone else."

Sherlock stalked over to the desk, leaned towards him. Cold and determined. "I've found you. I don't need to find someone else."

Lestrade could feel the warm breath on his face. Outside a couple of staff members were looking over towards his office and talking. Someone else turned to see, and then another. Half the office was watching Sherlock not backing off an inch.

"I'm not doing this here," he snarled at Sherlock. The man smiled at that.

"Good. Your place or mine? I brought the handcuffs." And he was dangling them in front of Lestrade's face and Lestrade could feel the hot glow in his cheeks, because no-one in the main office was doing anything but watching them now. Any minute now someone would come in and interrupt them, because this must look like completely the wrong sort of tense situation to the onlookers. Or at least he hoped it did.

He stood up, moved awkwardly around the desk for his long coat, and thank God that the weather was bad enough to have an excuse to wear it. Sherlock was still jingling the handcuffs; Lestrade fumbled the coat buttons. "Put those damn things away. Please."

"Where are we going?"

"You're the genius. Work it out." Because he didn't have the first idea. Out of sight of his colleagues. Not in any crushes of people. Absolutely not anywhere on his own with Sherlock, particularly if there were beds. Or carpets. Or desks.

Inspiration struck. He dodged back behind his PC to do a quick search of police records. Witness addresses; yes, she was in here. And knowing his luck today they'd have gone out shopping for rugs or something, but it was the only idea he had. He pushed back past Sherlock, trying to pretend that he hadn't just touched the man, headed out.

"Everything all right, boss?"

"Fine. I'll be in Monday." He didn't turn to the speaker. Wasn't going to catch any eyes. And if they thought that was odd, well, there were alarm words and he hadn't given any of them so they should leave it be.

On the landing he hesitated. Eleven floors up. And he didn't want to be alone in a lift with Sherlock, but he wasn't sure that he could walk down all those flights of stairs in his current condition. He thought of grabbing a chaperone, but it might not actually stop Sherlock, and then there would be a witness.

"Less than 50 seconds descent time, Inspector. I had something rather more prolonged in mind than that." Sherlock stretched out an elegant finger to press the down button. He hadn't asked again where they were going.

The lift seemed to take about five times as long as Sherlock had predicted. Lestrade kept his coat curled around him and his eyes on the floor indicator. Sherlock didn't crowd him, didn't speak. Just watched him as if he might make a break for freedom somehow.

Out in the street Sherlock flagged down a taxi with imperious ease, and held the door for Lestrade. Who contemplated the chances of success that running would bring, sighed, and got in. He was entirely unsurprised to hear Sherlock reel off the address that the computer had given him, then close the driver's hatch. As Sherlock looked back at Lestrade, the man's face tightened to disapproval.

"What exactly do you intend to achieve by involving John? You are well aware that he will find any discussion of gay sex acutely embarrassing, especially if Sarah is within earshot."

"Tough. Since this is all his idea, he can tell you to back off and leave me alone."

Silence. Sherlock appeared to be studying the signs behind the driver's head.

"This wasn't his idea, was it, Sherlock?"

"Of course it was." That cool voice was covering something. Sherlock wasn't the only detective in the cab.

"What did he actually say?"

"I told you earlier."

"You know I'm going to ask him, when we get there. What did he say, Sherlock?"

Sherlock continued to contemplate fare rates. "I think the conversation requires context."

"So give some." Lestrade felt, for the first time that day, like he might be winning a round.

"There was no butter," Sherlock said. Lestrade waited.

"I wanted toast. I'd got up early; I had a lot of important things to do today." His glare at Lestrade suggested that he'd been unreasonably distracted since. "The butter had been eaten by the dog. So I woke John up and told him to buy some more."

Lestrade was rather impressed at the accuracy of his imaginings about Baker Street life. "He didn't, I hope."

"He told me that it was my fault because I had left the butter out on the floor. I pointed out that no amount of leaving the butter out on the floor would have resulted in it being eaten by a dog had there not been a dog in residence, and that was his responsibility, so he should get the butter."

"Mmm." Lestrade could see this one going downhill rapidly.

"He refused on the basis that he was tired. Which was hardly a good reason, since his lack of sleep was entirely avoidable, being the result of having sex twice before coming home at 4.09am. Since I wasn't having sex at all due to his obdurate heterosexuality, I felt that I should at least get buttered toast."

Lovely. Lestrade started to feel slightly better about the way his day had gone. At least he didn't get this at 7am every morning. Although a small rebellious part of him thought that maybe he'd put up with a great deal to be woken by Sherlock in person at 7am, and that John Watson was, all things considered, still a lucky bastard.

"At this point John suggested that I might want to consider finding a temporary sexual partner."

Lestrade had taken too many police statements not to notice the change from detail to generality. "What exactly did he say, Sherlock? In his words?"

"Exact words are not necessary."

"Yes they are. I'm going to get this from John, if you don't tell me. You've been screwing me around all morning and I'm going to get to the bottom of this."

Sherlock turned to consider him. Articulated carefully.

"Why don't you go and fuck Lestrade then, if you're so bloody desperate? He's stupid enough to be grateful."

Oh. Lestrade considered his swirl of emotions for a second, concluded that he was mostly just glad that he'd been saying no. Neither as cheap or as stupid as John Watson thought.

"Then what?"

"Then John got up, packed an overnight bag and left with the dog. I had toast with marmalade, which loses much of its pleasant texture if there isn't a layer of butter in between, and sent you a text."

Lestrade looked out of the window for a while, thinking. Looked back.

"What do you think John's going to say when I tell him how you've been harassing me over this? Never mind say, what do you think he'd do?"

He felt very little compunction about threatening Sherlock with one of the few things that seemed to matter to the man. If you didn't try to keep him under control with everything at your disposal, you were lost.

A sharp intake of breath, one short, unreadable glance and Sherlock rapped on the driver's glass, was out of the car and striding away as soon as it had stopped. The cabbie looked back at Lestrade.

"Still the same address?"

John wouldn't have stormed out of Baker Street this morning over being woken at 7am to buy milk. It would have been the reminder of Sherlock's uncomfortable and inconvenient sexual desires that had sent him to seek refuge with his nice, straightforward girlfriend. Being tracked down there of all places, being forced to deal with the subject again, was going to make him furious. Lestrade had been counting on his annoyance with Sherlock to get the man to back off. But if Sherlock wasn't there, it would be Lestrade in the firing line and that wasn't going to help him any. John would almost certainly tell him to sod off and sort it out himself.

Home, then.

 

Somehow it was nearly three pm. Most of the whole damn day off wasted. Sherlock had left the door locked but he hadn't bothered to tidy up his mess, of course. Lestrade shoved what was left of stuff back into the drawer; Sherlock seemed to have run off with half of it. He took that shower at last, came back naked to lie on the bed and flick through the mags one-handed.

God, he needed to be in a relationship again. A man his own age. Someone decent. Someone he could be fond of. They could watch TV in the evenings, have lazy sex on Saturday mornings. Go on holiday together, walk hand in hand down the beach.

He laughed at himself. Duck half bricks thrown at them in the process, no doubt. Romances were never as sweet as they seemed. And thinking about someone nice wasn't working for him at all right now.

Because Sherlock Holmes had sprawled naked over these same sheets a few hours ago, inviting- no, demanding- a shag. And Sherlock's cock had been pale and hard and his lips wet and...fuck...that did it. Lestrade reached for the tissues and closed his eyes, exhausted.

 

The shrill tone of the mobile woke him. He scrambled for his discarded clothes, dug it out of his trouser pocket. Sherlock. Thumbed "off' without answering.

Nearly half seven. He'd slept all afternoon. He'd eaten nothing today but a bacon roll on the way over to Baker Street. The phone hit his mattress as he headed into the kitchen, Ought to put some clothes on. After another shower. After starting some dinner.

The mobile rang four times in the next three minutes. Lestrade let it ring out as he shoved something random from fridge into microwave. Six minutes to shower and dress until it was ready. The phone started again and police instincts nagged at him. No, still Sherlock. He let it ring out again- a mistake, that first time, to let the other man know that he was here.

A shower of texts, all from Sherlock. He didn't open them; instead he took the shower.

The next call came while he was dressed and eating. A number that neither he nor the phone recognised. He let it run through to voice mail. No message left.

Then peace. Past eight now and a day taken from him. Lestrade flicked through Saturday night TV unenthusiastically. Maybe he'd try the pub. There would be football on there, and normal people. Sane people.

He'd set a different ringtone for the station. Picked up without thinking, automatically professional. "DI Lestrade."

"Alive after all." Sherlock's tone was lazily triumphant. "Read your texts, Inspector."

"No. Sod off." He slammed the phone off. How the hell had the man got hold of that phone? Someone was going to get their arse kicked over that one when he got in on Monday.

Then his mother rang.

Possibly. He glared at the caller ID, irresolute. Because his mother did ring, most Saturday nights. Because it would worry her if he didn't pick up, and she would hang up on voicemail.

He stabbed the answer button, tried to moderate his voice so as not to upset her. "Hello?"

"Have you deleted the texts?"

"No. How the fuck are you doing this, Sherlock? It's both technically impossible and extremely illegal."

"Read them."

"I'm just going to turn the damn thing off."

"No, you're not. The team might need you. So might your mother. Read the texts." And the line went dead.

Lestrade made coffee, prevaricating. Put some reality rubbish on the TV, sound low, just for the company. Sat down on the settee, opened the most recent text, because he couldn't think of any good reason not to.

_In the right order, obviously._

Smart arse. But Lestrade managed a small grin as he thumbed his way back to the earliest unopened item.

_Exhibits A to F_

The first text contained photos, a series of them. All of him. Taken at odd angles, without his knowledge. He recognised most of the backgrounds; investigations in progress over the last couple of months.

So what, exactly? Sherlock had been taking pictures of him? Was this intended to demonstrate some sort of long-term stalk in progress? He wasn't satisfied with that; a little unsubtle for Holmes. He clicked slowly between the photos, trying to find some better significance.

It took a good five minutes and an incipient headache before he spotted the only possible link. A glimpse of his dark blue cashmere jumper, in every shot. The one he was wearing today. He'd liked it hugely, had bought it a couple of years ago for something special; a niece's christening, he seemed to remember. It had sat unused afterwards for a long time until he'd decided recently that it was a shame to waste it and had started to wear it for work, sometimes, or occasionally at weekends.

No, come to think of it, he'd not worn it at weekends before. Just today. And not often at work; Sherlock's camera phone must have caught every occasion. He'd liked it too much to wear it to pieces.

So what did that mean? He flicked back through the photos. Each of them definitely on an occasion when Sherlock had been present, and there were far more working days on which he saw nothing of the man. How could there be a link between his clothes and the consulting detective? What would Sherlock deduce?

Lestrade tried to reason it through. Either Sherlock's presence was a response to the jumper, or the cashmere jumper's presence was a response to Sherlock.

Oh. Shit. How fucking embarrassing was that? Because he had in no way been conscious of dressing up for a man fifteen years his junior and absolutely not interested in him. The thought made him cringe. And Sherlock not only noticed, of course, but quietly collected evidence. God knows what he'd thought he was going to do with it. Blackmail, maybe.

So he was in further over his head than he'd let himself admit. Didn't make him any more inclined to let Sherlock drag him all the way under. Not even a pity fuck, because Sherlock had no pity for him, just a use, one day only. He dropped the phone on the table, grabbed his wallet, slammed the flat door closed behind him.

Ten minutes later he was back on the sofa, a mug pressed into service in place of the ashtrays he'd thrown away months previously. And god, the flat would stink of nicotine tomorrow and the pack of ten he'd just bought would be gone and probably replaced, all that bloody effort wasted, but getting drunk would be worse because he didn't have a hope of keeping Sherlock at bay without a clear head.

Lestrade drew the smoke from the first cigarette deep into his lungs, felt the much-missed hit, calmed slightly. Get the damn thing over. Second text.

_tm apprx._

8 plst anlys  
915 sx  
945 shwr  
1010 brts  
1030 skn anlys  
1315 llyds  
1330 pr rslts plst anlys  
14 k on th  
1445 crpter fw up  
16 bs  
17 eat/slp  
20 srch jn's rm  
2015 v  


 

Lestrade blinked at the schedule. Sherlock was quite capable of texting in English, and usually did. This was a game. Seemed the man did have a lot planned, not all of it decipherable, but including going through his flatmate's possessions while the man was away. Blunt, at least. As was scheduling 30 minutes for sex. Lestrade suspected these texts were having the reverse effect from that intended.

He took a long drag on the cigarette. Third text.

_tm apprx._

8 plst anlys  
915 fail sx  
935 l  
1030 fl sx  
1045 csdr l  
1300 nsy  
1330 fl prgrs sx  
1345 txi l  
1400 fl prgrs sx  
1410 ext txi  
1412 brts  
1445 mrgue expt  
1600 bs  
1630 csdr l frthr  
1915 phn l  
1945 txt l

That made Lestrade laugh out loud. Put that way, one could almost feel sorry for the man. And had he really been on Sherlock's mind that exclusively all day (apart from that unsavory sounding morgue experiment)? Seemed unlikely. But either the texts or the cigarettes were doing something, because he was beginning to relax. Fail progress sex, indeed!

There was one more text. "Bring it on, then," he said aloud to his phone, opened it.

_People, serial killers excepted, do not keep attention 10 hrs+. Deduce not just subs. John. Mutual interest. BS. Will pay taxi fare._

SH  
  
Will pay taxi fare? From anyone else Lestrade would have considered that clumsy and insulting. From Sherlock he suspected that it was as near to 'please' as the man could get.

Mutual interest. A long way from this morning. More than he'd ever expected from Sherlock. He lit a second cigarette, leaned back to smoke it, thinking.

It would make things more difficult afterwards. No doubt about that. Mutual interest wasn't a relationship, and Sherlock did not need people, had John for that, in everything but the strictly physical sense. This was sex on offer, no more.

His phone beeped. Another text from Sherlock.

_Don't change_

SH

Lestrade frowned at it. Now what the hell did the man mean by that? A plea for psychological stability?

The jumper. Of course. So Sherlock had liked it, after all. And Lestrade realised that he didn't have much of a choice any more, because however bad he'd feel tomorrow morning if he agreed, he'd feel worse if he missed out, now. Sherlock was interested. In him. In what he was wearing, for god's sake! No longer just a way of getting laid. It was bound to end badly but at least it was going to start well. He stubbed out the cigarette, threw it away and went to clean his teeth.

 

It was half nine and no longer raining when Lestrade knocked on the Baker Street door again. Sherlock opened it without any noticeable expression, stood back to let him step inside.

"Seventeen fifty." Because he had to say something.

Sherlock frowned, just a little. "The tip was excessive. Sixteen seventy."

"Cheapskate." And that exchange at least got them up the stairs.

He was forty five, for God's sake. And he'd never done casual sex to the extent that some men did, but first times were hardly something new. No lack of attraction, either. And no doubt that Sherlock wanted this. So why was he standing in the sitting room, his hand wrapped around the cigarette packet in his coat pocket, somehow unable to make a move? Sure only that if Sherlock mocked him he was going to leave.

"Try taking your coat off." Sherlock's voice was neutral.

He did that. "Coffee?"

"Caffeine as well as nicotine? If you like."

The mugs from this morning were still next to the sink. Making the drinks was a soothing routine. Until he finished adding the milk, gripped the handles to take the mugs through, found Sherlock behind him. Very close behind him. Pressing him up against the kitchen worktop, in fact.

"They'll be too hot to drink for four minutes. Put them down."

Hips hard up against his arse and no doubt of Sherlock's interest now. Hands pulled his jacket off his shoulders, smoothed over the cashmere; soft wool shifting across his chest, his stomach.

"Dry cleaning won't get the smell out properly. If you have to smoke, wear something cheaper next time."

"Oddly enough, I hadn't been planning to start again. Thank you for that."

A snort, warm breath in his ear. "You won't need it again, now."

Certainly the ache for a cigarette had gone, replaced by a completely different and rather more major ache. Sherlock wasn't backing off to let him turn round, so he just set his hands flat on the worktop and waited.

This time the warm palms were under the wool, sliding over bare skin and he knew that he was lost, because all his principles wouldn't stand up against the single overriding need to make sure this didn't stop. And Sherlock felt everything, of course; he heard the small sound of triumph from behind him.

Lestrade shook his head at that. He was lost but he wasn't letting Sherlock crow.

"I'm easily won over, Holmes. You just didn't know how."

Hands crossed over his stomach, slid up to opposing nipples. Sherlock's arms were wrapped around him. Slight interrogatory noise.

"If you'd told me that you found me interesting at nine o'clock this morning, it could have saved us both a long day."

"At nine o'clock this morning you were considerably less interesting." Tugs on the bottom of the jumper; it slid over Lestrade's head smoothly. A hot tongue swiped across the back of his neck and he shivered.

Fingers lower now, at his belt, and he let the man behind him continue to strip him naked. The smell of the coffee in front of him was suddenly acute and he interlaced his fingers around the mug, took a sip, as much to give his hands something to do as for any better reason.

"Finish that later." Sherlock's hands closed on his upper arms, steered him back into the sitting room. He tried to turn round, was blocked, gave up the attempt. One of them seemed to know what he was doing, at least.

For a moment he was released. Then a fan of pressure between his shoulderblades, the harder nail of a thumb against his spine. When he didn't move the pressure became steadily harder, until he let himself be propelled by that one splayed hand towards the wall beside the fireplace.

He really didn't like the wallpaper. Still, Sherlock seemed determined to ensure that he examine it fully. Right up against it, his head turned to one side, his hands flat against the wall, his bare toes and bare cock brushing the cold surface. Generally he preferred sex in soft beds to sex against hard walls, but he was in the mood to be obliging. Or, put another way, Sherlock could do anything he damn well liked right now, as long as he didn't stop.

And that was why he should never even risk thinking in Sherlock's presence, because everything stopped. Just the hard pressure spread across his back. He waited a dozen breaths, half a dozen more, then protested.

"Sherlock."

"Twelve hours and fifty two minutes."

That Lestrade had kept him waiting. He was not serious.

"Entirely serious. I know my body's capacity for endurance."

Lestrade could have broken away from that hand's pressure with ease. He didn't.

"I'm fifteen years older than you, Sherlock, and considerably less fit. And despite what my last boyfriend might tell you, I'm a considerably better shag when conscious."

A laugh that actually sounded amused. "I don't doubt it. Very well. On the floor, then."

"Bed?" he tried, hopefully.

"Still saucepan. There's a rug."

Under everything else. Lestrade knelt down, shoved papers aside. Sherlock was crouching behind him, still firmly out of reach, hand resting on his bare back. Control freak when it came to sex. Of course.

The rug looked like it could do with cleaning, but it was still reasonably thick. As soon as a space was cleared the pressure on Lestrade's back increased again. There was something astoundingly arousing about being naked on one's hands and knees, he had to admit. Particularly with an unseen man crouching behind you, clothes brushing your bare arse.

"Raise your left hand."

He did, puzzled. Felt it seized, twisted, not painfully, around to his back. The cold of metal and a familiar snick. Sherlock was leaning over him now, weight across his back as the man replaced the hand firmly by the grate, pulled the other cuff through the ironwork.

"Other hand."

Lestrade looked at the open metal cuff, temporarily irresolute. He'd always been moderately aroused by the thought of bondage. Enough so to half-inch the handcuffs, anyway, though as Sherlock had spotted, he'd never actually used them. But to be honest he was always going to be more of a silk sheets round the bedpost and ostrich feathers sort of BDSM guy.

Now an obsessive sociopath wanted to chain him naked to an iron grating. And absolutely no guarantee of what Sherlock might do next. He might screw him. He might post photos on the Internet. He might leave him here until John returned. Sherlock had no social inhibitions.

Breath in his ear. "Well, Inspector? Do you trust me?"

It was the 'Inspector' that decided him. Because he had been trusting Sherlock Holmes for years now. Not in the small things, not by any means. Sherlock lied and manipulated and broke any law he cared to. But with the big things, with other people's lives, time and again. With his career, continuously. So all he needed to do was decide whether this was a small thing, or a large.

To Sherlock, this was doubtless a very small thing. A day's indulgence, sparked off by John's annoyance. To Lestrade it was somewhat larger. Still not large enough, he suspected, but if he doubted Sherlock over this, the rot might spread, further than merely whether they might or not have sex tonight, into everything between them. If he stopped trusting Sherlock, he would have to stop working with him, and people would die as a result.

That was too much of a serious thought to have at this precise moment, with his erection hanging heavy and demanding between his legs and Sherlock's tongue running around his ear. So he just shifted his wrist into Sherlock's reach.

Then there was a long wait, listening to the noises behind him and hoping that they were Sherlock undressing and not Sherlock doing other, unimaginable things. And please God, no camera.

"Not for public consumption." The firm voice from behind him; he felt the warmth of bare skin as the man nudged his calves apart, settled between them. "No photos, no gossip. You worry too much, Lestrade."

He'd stopped worrying because the warm smooth weight sliding slowly across the small of his back could only be one thing, and it was taking all his effort not to move, or beg, or spill all those secrets that Sherlock already knew but was not ever going to hear from him.

Hands gripped his shoulders.

"Unless you have any objection," the calm voice continued, "things are about to get rough."

God knows what Sherlock considered rough. But it was essentially the same decision as before. "Go ahead."

Fingers grabbed at his thighs, digging into the insides painfully, immobilising him. Something slammed at him; that sort of rough. He didn't care; he slid his knees further apart, pushed back again, harder than the hands were encouraging him to.

Sherlock must have registered co-operation because his hands let go, shifted back to Lestrade's shoulders, raked downwards. Lestrade barely noticed; too intent on ensuring that Sherlock got where he wanted to be.

The second set of scratches were harder, made him hiss. Floating on pain and adrenaline and arousal; he wanted nothing but to catch the rhythm of the man behind him, to thrust back harder and faster, even though it hurt, to make him come. Now. He almost missed Sherlock's tight gasp, but he felt shooting agony as the man pulled away, quickly eased to a dull ache.

Quick fingers were undoing the handcuffs. Lestrade collapsed onto his stomach. He reckoned that had taken about a minute. Minute and a half, tops.

"Dear God, Sherlock. And I spent years thinking you had no interest in sex."

"Lie still for a few seconds." Sherlock was off to the kitchen, Lestrade's first glimpse of the man's naked body since the flat this morning. His limp cock twitched slightly at the sight, reminding him that Sherlock's idea of sex had been predictably one-sided. Sherlock was returning with a bottle and cloth.

"This will hurt." He knelt across Lestrade's thighs, poured liquid over his back. Warned, Lestrade managed not to scream. Sherlock was patting the cloth gently over the disinfectant.

"Was that really necessary?" His eyes were watering.

"Morgue, this afternoon. Possibility of cross-infection."

The pain was easing off again. He was going to need another taxi to get home though. Probably worth it, he supposed. Although it was a little disconcerting.

"Is that normally what you like?"

"Mmm." Sherlock sounded like the proverbial cat with the cream. "It's been a number of years since I was able to do that quite so directly. Gratifying."

Lestrade did a quick self assessment. Arse; soreness would be mostly gone by morning. Sherlock hadn't been that rough, all things considered, and he wasn't entirely inexperienced; he'd known that co-operation helped. The scraped skin across his shoulders would sting for a day or two. Nothing to complain about. Not since he'd been warned.

"Any time," he replied, without thinking much, still trying to catalogue the many ways in which sex hadn't yet gone disastrously wrong.

"Good." Sherlock's tone suggested that something had been settled between them.

He was hardening a little again now, response to Sherlock's slight and naked weight across his thighs. The weight lifted; Sherlock was lying down next to him, tugging his shoulder and thigh so that he faced away. The scratches flared red again as skin covered them, skin all the way down his back, across his arse, along his lower leg, a leg across his thigh. Sherlock's arm was across his chest, holding him close. Spooning. Tongue investigated the raw skin, moved on, and then Sherlock's mouth wrapped around the back of his neck, licking. Licking, for God's sake.

"What are you doing?"

"Skin to skin contact arouses you."

Lips pulled at his earlobe and his thoughts stuttered.

"Isn't this a bit late for foreplay?" Not that he wanted Sherlock to stop, but he did like to know what the hell was going on.

"So linear." Sherlock sighed disapprovingly. Fingers travelled downwards, twisted around his balls, smoothed up over his fully hardened erection. "What's wrong with doing it now?"

It was seldom a good idea to risk offending a man with his hand just there, but Lestrade risked it.

"You've had your fun already. It's not like you to put yourself out to be obliging. It makes me nervous."

He thought that he'd blown it when Sherlock let go.

"Don't worry, Inspector. I'm not being altruistic."

The familiar sound of foil ripping, then Sherlock's hand was back, smoothing the condom down with casual competence. "I've still got a use for you."

Lestrade tried to ignore the small firework display that had just gone off in his stomach. "My way," he said, firmly.

"Of course." There was lube now- nicked from his flat, naturally. At least this time would be civilised.

"On your back, then." Because he wanted to see what he was doing. What they both were doing.

Sherlock was rolling lithely over him now, then flat on his back, spread obedient, anticipatory; that was enough to make Lestrade's stomach tighten again painfully, half lust, half stage fright.

For a moment he just looked, properly. At first glance the man had all the angles of an adolescent but his soft cock curled round wiry adult hair and everywhere were hard muscles under the white skin. Scar tissue, long healed, across his stomach; Lestrade pictured a knife, pushed the image away. No obvious marks of drug use, except for the nicotine patch above his elbow. Thighs wide, knees bent, a promise, or more likely a command.

Sherlock's body looked young and vulnerable, his face unshielded, his eyes half closed, and Lestrade ached to do all the things to it that were not allowed. No, he told himself. Just sex. But as he reached down, stroked the white skin across Sherlock's stomach, the man's eyes flicked open, piercing.

"You are restraining yourself. Why?"

Lestrade tried to come up with a coherent answer that didn't give away too much. Didn't embarrass them both.

"This is just," A finger ran around his balls and he shuddered. "Just sex. There are things that are appropriate to people with emotional attachments. Affection, I suppose. I don't want to confuse the two."

Sherlock's gaze hadn't flickered. "The fact that you are having to exercise restraint suggests that an emotional attachment is already in place."

It was a statement, not a question. Lestrade didn't answer.

"So why not act accordingly?"

"Because you don't care, Sherlock!" That came out with more vehemence than he had intended. "I'm not going to pretend to myself that you do."

Sherlock smiled, wide, cold.

"I'm curious as to what I will be missing."

"You'll have to stay curious. They are called defences for a reason, and I'm keeping them."

He slid between Sherlock's thighs, rested on top of the man's stomach. Shifted his hips a couple of times, experimentally, watched Sherlock's eyes flare slightly.

Forty five did have a couple of things going for it. He was as slow and precise as Sherlock had been hard and fast. Nothing, he thought, could compare with Sherlock underneath him, every thrust steady into tight, accepting flesh.

But as the first flush of euphoria faded, as he settled into the steady, comfortable rhythm that would, in time, yield the day's second orgasm, he found himself gazing into Sherlock's eyes and he faltered. Nothing there but calculation of physical pleasure, just as nothing was happening underneath him but the absorption of everything that he did. Reciprocation, even simple gratitude, was nothing to Sherlock. Lestrade was a means to an end. He was being used.

Lestrade could have pulled away, got dressed, gone home. He could have closed his eyes, speeded up, let friction and physiology produce the desired result. That was, he suspected, all that Sherlock wanted from him, after all.

But Detective Inspector Lestrade was a stubborn man, especially over important things. And it had just become horribly apparent to him that Sherlock Holmes was one of those things. He'd been right this morning; this was so much worse than nothing at all. This was a dreadful mistake.

There was nothing left to lose, except his pride. He took a deep breath and did the one thing he'd hoped never to have to do. He dropped his defences.

Kissing Sherlock was heady stuff. Lips parted underneath him, mouth warm, tongue soft. When he felt passivity, he pulled away, dipped his head instead to kiss the angles and softnesses of the man's face. He was resting on his elbow; his free hand smoothed gently across the nape of Sherlock's neck, wrapped around the curls of his hair as Lestrade nuzzled gently into the side of his cheek. God, the man's skin was intoxicating. His thumb smoothed over the skin at the corner of Sherlock's eye as he let his ache for affection show.

He didn't expect it. Didn't demand it. Sherlock's affections, if that's what they were, had never come anywhere close to him. But he closed his eyes and murmured the name of the man whose legs he was moving between because this was about as close as he was going to get to loving and hell if Sherlock laughed at him, it couldn't make it any worse.

But Sherlock's cheek was pushing back against his fingers, and damn if the man's breathing didn't hitch. Hips were twitching against his, at last.

"You like that," he murmured. "Come on, gorgeous. Show me how you like it."

Half closed eyes flickered open at that.

"Gorgeous? You surprise me, Inspector." No bite in that tone, just amusement.

"Gorgeous." Lestrade said, firmly. "Shut up and let me make love to you."

"Just sex, you said." Sherlock's voice was questioning. "You wouldn't pretend that I cared."

"I don't pretend that you care." He sighed, brushed his lips over Sherlock's. "I've just stopped pretending that I don't. So you get all of me, after all. You win."

"Naturally." Sherlock sounded distracted. "Do that again. Around the eyes. And go a little faster."

"Show me."

They were almost moving together at last and if, in the end, it was two parts relief for every one part ecstasy, well, this time it really had been the journey that was important.

He rolled off Sherlock's body, lay still for a moment. Wondered what to say.

"What you are going to say is something conventionally polite. What you are thinking is that I am a remarkably selfish and lazy lover. I am not entirely sure why this surprises you." Sherlock had propped himself up on one arm to look down on Lestrade.

"It shouldn't, really." Lestrade admitted. "It goes along with all your other admirable personal qualities."

"Exactly. Whereas you display a surprising flair for sex. Although you need to lose eleven pounds and exercise more. There is no reason for a man your age to ever have a heart rate as high as it was earlier."

"Thank you for the flair remark, but sod off for the rest. You knew I was old and overweight when you bullied me into this. And not many men my age get chained to gratings and buggered by sadistic sociopaths."

A frown. "It would only be sadistic if you didn't enjoy it."

Enjoy was not quite the word that he would have used, but Lestrade had to concede to himself that if asked again he wouldn't be likely to say no.

"Don't" he said, because he was talking to a sociopath. To Sherlock Holmes. "even consider escalation."

"You watch too much bad TV. It's not about pushing boundaries. No escalation." Sherlock's quick smile. "It's just entertaining."

"Sure". He pulled himself up to a sitting position, winced. "I need a shower and some paracetamol. And a taxi home."

"No time for a shower. You can have one when you get back."

"From where?" Lestrade couldn't really cope with any more stuff today.

"Turn right, third road on your right, 70 yards. Bacon, sausages, eggs, mushrooms, baked beans, milk. It is unlikely that they will have black pudding in stock, but if they do, get some. And butter, of course."

Lestrade blinked. The shopping list seemed so terribly mundane.

"You want to cook breakfast tomorrow?"

Sherlock frowned slightly. "I want you to cook breakfast tomorrow."

This was all going just a little bit fast. "You want me to stay?"

"If you like. I would have thought it more convenient than coming back again in the morning."

"Stay here? In your bed?"

"You'd have to move the saucepan. John's is probably more convenient. I have a key to his room. He might not like it though." Sherlock looked slightly out of his depth for about the first time all day.

Enlightenment dawned. "You're sleeping on the sofa?"

"If I sleep. I am rather behind on my schedule this weekend. I will probably work."

Lestrade sighed. "So am I staying here just to cook you breakfast?"

"Also to buy it. The shop closes in eighteen minutes. I suggest that you get dressed first."

Sherlock was a positive genius at providing mixed signals. Lestrade had had enough.

"I'm not your bloody housekeeper. I don't do just breakfast. Throw in a couple of seriously good orgasms- you know, the ones where you actually move- and I'l consider it."

"A couple?"

"One each."

"Ah." Sherlock was staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. There was a very long pause, which Lestrade reluctantly broke.

"So?"

"So what?"

"Sex and breakfast, or neither?"

Sherlock snorted. "Obviously sex and breakfast. Why would I keep you around otherwise? The cafe downstairs does a perfectly adequate English breakfast but there's never yet been anyone in there that I've wanted to fuck. Fifteen minutes."

Sherlock lying naked and sated next to him was not, when it came down to it, any different from Sherlock any of the rest of the time. Lestrade found that oddly reassuring.

"Want to hear my idea? You sod off and get on with experimenting on things. I'll have a shower and then try and find a usable bed and sleep in it. And tomorrow morning, after the orgasms, I'll buy you breakfast at Speedy's. With the £16.70 that you owe me."

An almost imperceptible snort. "Acceptable." Sherlock rolled over and onto his feet with a grace that took Lestrade's breath away. "I need the shower first. You can make more coffee. Sex with you is so slow that the last lot will have gone cold."

Someone, Lestrade thought, watching Sherlock claim the bathroom, should tell that ...boy... that setting speed records for shagging was not generally highly rated as an accomplishment. He'd do it himself, in the morning. Right now he was going to make coffee and try to de-explosive Sherlock's bed. Which sounded risky but was probably safer than borrowing John's.

Oh god, John. And the team. This was not going to be a popular move on his part with so many people. He doubted that Sherlock would have any interest in discretion, so he'd have to ride it out. His life turned upside down for something that Sherlock could get bored with tomorrow. He didn't count on this to last, by any means. Sherlock's emotional attachments were not to him.

Still, he couldn't help where his were, so he'd give it a damn good run, long as he could. At least the sex would be good. He thought about that, corrected it. The sex would probably be pretty bad, if this evening was anything to go by, but it would be with Sherlock. Right now, he'd settle for that and a decent night's sleep.

THE END


End file.
